11
"Boy, was I glad Rafferty didn't call on me," Sonya Isaacson giggled as they left the English class. "I know I would have goofed my poem up."
"I didn't even know mine," Daphne confessed. "I was going to memorize it last night, but I watched a movie on HBO instead."
"Anyway, of course he'd call on Emily and Jacob, those nerds," Meredith said. "Look at my gross gym suit. My mother ironed all these creases into it." She held up the folded blue gym suit and made a face.
"Willoughby'll love it," Daphne said. "Hey, An astasia, have you decided what you're going to do for the gym demonstration?"
"What do you mean?" Sonya asked. "Anastasia has to blow the whistle while we all make fools of ourselves climbing ropes."
Daphne grinned. "Anastasia has a surprise," she said.
"What? What is it?" Sonya and Meredith turned to Anastasia. "What's the surprise?"
But Anastasia shook her head. She didn't want to talk about it. She was depressed about the English class. She had rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed that poem. She had overcome her normal self-consciousness to the point that she had desperately wanted to recite that poem, that day, to that class, in front of that group of visitors.
The warning bell rang. "You go ahead," Anastasia said to her friends. "I'll catch up."
"Don't be late," Meredith said. "We all promised Ms. Willoughby we'd be on time."
Anastasia nodded glumly. She wanted to walk to gym by herself. She wanted to think.
Probably, she knew, she shouldn't disrupt the gym class in front of all the visitors, maybe embarrassing Ms. Willoughby. She should just be a good sport and blow the whistle the way she'd been told.
If she'd only been allowed to recite the poem, probably she would be content to phweet the whistle. But now things were different. Now, if she didn't do anything about it, the entire day would go by and she would never be noticed. She would be a nothing. She would be a nonparticipant, a bystander, a nonentity, a nerd.
A month from now, back in Stuttgart or Brussels or Liverpool, or wherever, the educators would remember their visit to American schools, and they would think of—
Yuck. Jacob Berman. They would think, "That wonderful intelligent boy in a junior high school in a Boston suburb; that boy who quoted long passages from Sophocles, imagine that..."
And they would think of—
Barf. Emily Ewing. They would think, "That stunning girl with the perfect teeth and the smooth, shiny, long hair; too bad she didn't know much about poetry, but even so..."
But if someone, by chance, asked, "What about Anastasia Krupnik?" they would scratch their heads. They would furrow their brows. They would say, finally,
"WHO?"
Anastasia couldn't bear it. The worst thing in the world, she decided, was to be on the receiving end of a brow-furrowed WHO.
So she decided to disrupt the gym class. And she hoped that she could do it in a way that would make Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby proud.
***
It was a different group of visitors in the gym, Anastasia noticed as she marched in with her classmates, all of them in their clean, starched gym suits, white socks, and newly washed white sneakers.
Jenny Billings had tried to get away with forgetting the white socks. "I'm sorry, Ms. Willoughby," Jenny Billings had said smugly in the locker room, "but I forgot my white socks. So I guess I'll just have to wear these striped knee socks."
"No way, José," Ms. Willoughby replied. "Be my guest, kiddo." And she held up a brand-new pair of white socks from the supply she had waiting. Jenny groaned, took the fresh socks, and went to change.
Anastasia glanced over at the guests, who were seated in a row in the bleachers, as she stood in her place in the lines of seventh-grade girls. Ms. Willoughby was making a little speech about the kinds of things they'd been doing in gym.
As usual, the educators were taking notes. This group included two Japanese—or maybe Chinese, Anastasia wasn't sure—gentlemen and a tall black woman in robes from some African country. There was also a woman in an Indian sari, with one long braid down her back and a red spot on her forehead.
Standing there with her legs—the skinniest legs in the entire world, she was quite certain—exposed, feeling half-naked and very unattractive, Anastasia wondered if the kids in those countries had to wear stupid-looking blue gym suits in their schools. She watched the foreigners writing diligently in their little notebooks.
"Tall girl with glasses at end of row six," she was sure they were writing. "Only girl in class wearing whistle on cord around neck. Skinniest legs in the world. Very awkward looking. Probably will be unable to climb rope."
Hah. Wait till I show them. All of them, even Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby.
"Now"—Ms. Willoughby was concluding her speech—"I'm going to have this group of girls demonstrate rope-climbing. Anastasia Krupnik, there at the end of row six, has very kindly volunteered to direct the exercise. Anastasia, would you step forward?"
Anastasia felt a new surge of love for Ms. Willoughby, who had done her absolute most tactful best to make it sound as if she had been specially selected as director, rather than the truth: that she had to blow the whistle because she had never been able to do better than dangle eighteen inches off the ground.
Ms. Willoughby would be truly pleased by the surprise, Anastasia decided.
She stepped forward to the spot that Ms. Willoughby indicated; Ms. Willoughby went over to the bleachers and sat down with the row of attentive educators.
"Phweet!" Anastasia blew the whistle, and the first six girls moved forward to the ropes and began to climb.
Watching, it suddenly occurred to Anastasia that 108 rope-climbing was, after all, a pretty dumb exercise. How often would you need to climb a rope in real life? How many of the girls in this class would become mountain climbers? How many would need to escape horn prison? (Daphne, maybe, if she didn't outgrow her adolescent pranks.) How many would have to be rescued from a rooftop by a helicopter? How many would—
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. One by one, Sonya, Jenny, Erin, Edith, Marie, and Jill dropped from the ends of the ropes to the mats that were spread on the floor, and went back to their places.
Ho-hum. "Phweet." It sure wasn't very exciting being the whistle-blower. But at least, Anastasia thought, her classmates were doing the rope-climbing quickly, so the period wouldn't end before her moment of glory.
She watched, trying to look interested and attentive, as Karen, Daphne, Melissa, Liz, and the Wilcox twins climbed the ropes.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.
"Phweet." And the third row of six girls climbed.
Anastasia began taking some deep breaths. She wasn't actually nervous, she decided, but maybe a little apprehensive. After all, she had only climbed the rope in her garage once. And it wasn't as high as the ropes in the gym.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.
"Phweet." The last row of girls—only four in this final group—went to the ropes. Meredith, Jessica, Bonnie, and Mary Ellen began to climb.
Anastasia glanced at the educators to be certain they were paying attention. One of the Japanese men was looking at his watch, but she decided that didn't mean he was bored. He was probably just admiring his watch, since it was probably made in Japan; Anastasia's father's watch was made in Japan, and it did so many digital things that Dr. Krupnik said he was surprised it didn't write haiku as well.
Thump. Meredith landed on the mat.
Thump. Bonnie landed.
Thump, thump. Jessica and Mary Ellen eased themselves down from the ropes, and the four girls went back to the waiting lines.
Anastasia saw Ms. Willoughby rise from her seat in the bleachers and start forward. Well, it was now or never; she knew Ms. Willoughby was about to say thank you to the girls and to the visitors, and then everyone would be dismissed.
"PHWEET!" Anastasia blew very hard on the whistle. Ms. Willoughby looked startled. The lady in the s
ari jumped slightly in her seat. All twenty-two girls in their gym suits stared at Anastasia to see what was going on. Daphne formed the words "Go for it!" silently with her mouth.
Anastasia stepped forward and faced the small audience on the bleachers. Ms. Willoughby was starting to sit down, starting to stand up again, and finally sitting back down, puzzled.
"Ah," Anastasia began, "there's going to be one final brief demonstration, and it will be me."
No one was taking notes. But their hands, with pens in them, were all poised over their notebooks.
"I want to explain," Anastasia went on, "that the reason I was only blowing the whistle was because I couldn't seem to climb a rope.
"I tried and tried but all I could do was dangle because I couldn't get the feet part right, and then my arms would start to hurt.
"And, ah, Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby, the gym teacher sitting there on your right—well, she kept encouraging me so that I began to practice a lot at home. She told me that one day I'd just keep right on going up the rope to the top. And I didn't really believe her, I guess, but I kept trying, and, ah, well—"
She stopped. She couldn't think what else to say. "Well, you watch," she said, finally. "I'll show you."
Anastasia turned and went to the closest rope. Suddenly she remembered the one final thing she had intended to say.
"I owe it all to my gym teacher, Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby," she said. Then she leaped and grabbed the rope as high as she could.
For a moment she dangled, the way she always had. But carefully she felt for the rope with her legs and feet, remembering how, last night in the garage, everything had come together for her.
There. There it was—the rope, in the correct position, and her sneakers grasping it just right. The feeling came back, the same feeling of power and control she had had last night, and she knew she would make it.
Up. She hauled herself with her arms, and felt herself rise along the rope. Up farther. Her feet grasped again, and the muscles in her legs pushed.
Up some more. Now her hands were more certain, and her legs moved just the right way, and she went faster.
Up and up. She had passed, now, the height of her garage rope, she knew. But she still had a distance to go, and she was sure now that she could make it. Below her, she could hear her classmates murmur. For them, it had been nothing, this trip up a rope—but each of them had seen Anastasia fail at it again and again.
Her glasses shifted on her nose and she realized that she was sweating a bit. It didn't matter. She didn't need to see. All she needed was the feel of the thick rope in her newly confident hands and then the feel of the knot in the upper end which would tell her she had made it to the top.
There: there it was, the knot. She was at the very top of the rope, the place she had thought she could never, ever achieve. Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby had been absolutely right when she had said, "One of these days, Anastasia, you'll amaze yourself."
I have, Anastasia thought; I've amazed myself. A week ago I thought I could never in a million years get to this spot, and now here I am: in front of a whole audience. I did it! This is the happiest moment of my life. And I'm just as glad that there wasn't time for me to say my poem in English class, because this is the absolutely right time for that poem, and won't they all be truly astounded now, because here goes:
"'O world!'" Anastasia exclaimed. " 1 cannot hold thee close enough!'"
Sure enough, it was just as Mr. Rafferty had predicted. Suddenly, now that she was overcome with emotion, the gestures came naturally. Anastasia flung out her arms.
And fell.
12
Anastasia opened her eyes and saw a ceiling that she was quite certain she had never seen before. Not wanting to move her head, which hurt a surprising amount for just one head, she slid her eyes first to the left and then to the right.
On one side she saw an unfamiliar table and an unfamiliar wall calendar. On the other side she saw an unfamiliar window with unfamiliar curtains, and through the window, she saw a tiny bit of an unfamiliar tree.
She was, she realized, in a bed—an unfamiliar bed. At the foot of the bed she saw a woman—an unfamiliar woman with gray-streaked hair—standing and looking at her.
Oh, great, Anastasia said to herself. I'm going to have to say the worst line of dialogue ever. Might as well get it over with.
She sighed. "Where am I?" she asked.
The woman moved forward, smiling. "Hi," she said. "You're in the hospital. I'm Dr. McCartin."
The doctor leaned more closely over Anastasia and looked into her eyes with an instrument. Anastasia could smell her perfume.
"Do you remember what happened?" Dr. McCartin asked, after she stood back up.
Anastasia frowned. She did remember, sort of. First she had been-in-English class, listening to el nerdo Jacob Berman; then she had gone to gym—oh yes, gym; that was it. She had blown the whistle—just thinking about it made her headache worse—and then she had made that stupid speech, and then she had...
Had she? Or was she just imagining it?
"I climbed the rope in gym, I think," she said tentatively to the doctor.
"Good!" the doctor replied.
"What do you mean, good? It was great!" Anastasia said. "Do you realize I'd been trying for months to climb that rope?" She began to pull herself up, and then stopped. "Ouch. My head really hurts," she complained.
The doctor was pumping up a blood pressure cuff on Anastasia's right arm. "Shhh," she said. "Lie back."
Anastasia eased herself back onto the pillow. I fell, she thought suddenly. I must have fallen from that rope.
She remembered the time that Sam had fallen, last summer, from his bedroom window, and had been taken by ambulance to the hospital. Now here she had gone and done practically the same thing, she realized. How stupid can you get? And my parents are probably all worried, the way they were then, when Sam had the fractured skull and had to have an operation and had to—
"Oh, NO!" Anastasia yelped suddenly.
The doctor popped the stethoscope out of her ears and looked at her quizzically. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Besides a headache, of course."
I'm going to be a good sport, Anastasia thought. I'll be mature. I won't cry. I'll learn to wear a turban or something.
"You had to shave my hair off, didn't you?" she wailed.
Dr. McCartin looked startled. "Good heavens, no," she said. "You only have a concussion. I'm going to send you home in a couple of hours, I think, if you promise not to climb any ropes for a few days."
Anastasia groaned.
"Want to try sitting up? There are a lot of people waiting out in the lounge to see you. Shall I let them come in?"
Dr. McCartin cranked up the head of the bed slowly. Anastasia felt dizzy for a moment, but then the dizziness faded. Her headache throbbed a bit, but it wasn't unbearable. Carefully she felt her head with her hand. There was a bump, and some soreness, but her hair was still there, thank goodness.
"Sure," Anastasia said, feeling a little like royalty, "allow them to come in."
***
Anastasia looked around the hospital room from where she sat in the position of honor in her bed. It was astounding. Never before in her entire thirteen years had so many people gathered just to pay attention to her.
There were her parents, of course, right beside the bed, still looking a little worried. "Honest," Anastasia kept reassuring them, "I'm fine."
There was Sam, sitting on Gertrude Stein's lap. Sam had been smuggled in because he was too young, technically, to visit in the hospital. "If you had bashed your head harder," Sam said, "you would have been a baldy, like I was."
"True," Anastasia acknowledged.
"And harder than that," Sam added, "and you would have been dead."
"Well, Sam, I don't think—"
"We could have had a funeral," Sam said sweetly, "and buried you in the earth like little birds and bugs and animals and Aunt Rose."
"Sam," whispered
Anastasia, "shhh." She glanced nervously toward Uncle George to see if he had heard. But Uncle George was over in the corner of the room, talking very pleasantly to—was that right? Was she seeing correctly? Anastasia sat up farther in the bed and peered beyond her father's shoulder.
Sure enough. It was Daphne's mother, smiling pleasantly and talking with animation to Uncle George. And there was Daphne, grinning at Anastasia.
"Did I disrupt gym class or did I not disrupt gym class?" Anastasia asked her.
"For sure," Daphne answered, rolling her eyes. "You should have seen everybody rushing around calling ambulances and stuff. And guess who was absolutely the most worried person there."
"That nervous-looking Japanese guy who kept checking his watch?"
"Shhh," whispered Daphne. "That guy's right over there in the corner of the room. It wasn't him anyway. It was—well, here, I'll let her tell you."
Daphne stepped aside to let Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby approach the bed. She didn't even have a layered-look outfit on; she had just thrown a trench coat over her shorts and sweat shirt.
"Anastasia, you were amazing," Ms. Willoughby said. "Amazing."
"I climbed the rope okay, didn't I? The only reason I fell," Anastasia said, "was—"
"I know. Because you threw your arms out. Your rope-climbing was perfect. A-plus for rope-climbing. But why on earth did you throw your arms out that way at the top?"
Gingerly, Anastasia shook her head. "It's too complicated to explain, Ms. Willoughby."
"Well," her gym teacher said, "you certainly scared everyone to death, most of all me. But you're okay, that's the important thing. And I've had a chance to meet your family: your nice parents, and your brother, and your very charming uncle from California—"
Uncle George and Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby? Suddenly Anastasia remembered what Daphne had told her just a few days before: that Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby had no man in her life. Hmmmmm. How did "Aunt Wilhelmina" sound? Not too bad. Anastasia glanced around to see if Uncle George was still totally involved with Daphne's mother. But no; Daphne's mother was now talking to the lady in the Indian sari—my goodness, that whole group of international educators was in the hospital room, too!